You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey. It’s best. “And, you know, you’re altering us all. You have neither reason nor logic. I'll send you word when I catch him. Mr.
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